


October Prompts 2020

by lysandratrevelyan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Epistolary, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LET ME MULTICLASS, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, No Child Was Harmed I Promise, October Prompt Challenge, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Reflection, but not really?, holy wow i updated after over a month
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysandratrevelyan/pseuds/lysandratrevelyan
Summary: A (hopefully) daily prompt fill for the Ink-Vestmere prompt list by thethirdamell on tumblr. Chapter titles are prompt and applicable pairing/character.
Relationships: Alistair & Anora Mac Tir, Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Carver Hawke/Isabela/Merrill, Female Adaar/The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Female Cadash/Varric Tethras, Female Cousland & Anora Mac Tir, Male Aeducan/Leliana (Dragon Age), Male Mahariel/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Brosca/Female Tabris
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Feastday/Meals - King Alistair/Queen Cousland & Anora

To say that Feastday was his least favorite holiday was a stretch, though not much of one. Alistair had become accustomed to small meals in his suite, or the occasional dinner with visiting nobles, or the Landsmeets, but Satinalia was something more. He couldn’t just be Alistair during it, and he couldn’t let Diantha and Anora deflect for him, he had to face his people himself. And it wasn’t the people he was anxious about, really, either--it was the limit to what he could actually do for them.

His favorite dinners were just he and his wife. Emery was still too small to join them, just now toddling around the nursery and not quite on solid food yet. Brandel had his place of honor in the kennels, though spoiled cur he is, he slept most often on the rug by their fire. And Anora… He didn’t believe things would ever truly be at peace between them, though she relented at least once a week to Diantha’s gentle pleas. For a woman whose highest goal in life was to be her brother’s second, she’d certainly retained courtly training better than he ever had.

Dinners with Anora may be stilted, but they were getting better. She blamed him for her father’s death, even if he hadn’t been the one to wield the blade, as neither had he stopped Vanek. Reminding her that he blamed her father for her husband’s death, as well as Duncan’s, did little to aid the tenuous peace, and more than once Diantha had quit the room in disgust. But still, they were trying. It had been Anora’s idea to name him King, after all.

Well, Eamon’s idea at first, but _he’d_ never planned on Anora keeping a seat at Alistair’s right. _That_ had been Alistair’s, thanks to Vanek.

Those tense meals were still preferable to hosting nobles or the Landsmeet, but there he could let Diantha and Anora play their games and keep him from snapping. Honestly! Did the Banns have nothing better to do than complain that it’s taking time to recover from the mess just two years past? There had been a Blight! Add to that the refugees fleeing both Blight and civil war, and the losses at Ostagar, and they were still only one generation removed from beating back the Orlesians! These things take time, and it seemed no one wanted to give them the time needed.

But Feastday… His first Satinalia as King, the people of Denerim and those areas closest to it had toasted him. Him and the other Wardens, but it was his name they cheered. And he suddenly missed traveling, so much. It wasn’t the first time he’d regretted the crown, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time it hit him that he’d _helped those people_. Not in a big, heroic way, but personally. He’d made traps, and found heirlooms, and returned children and siblings, and buried parents, and, and, and. And now he couldn’t. He could tell the Arls and Banns to do this or that, but he couldn’t visit every village, every farm, every alienage to see it was done. He couldn’t ensure they were given the seed and wood and stone and food needed to rebuild. He couldn’t help them, and it galled him.

He did his best, tried his hardest to see each Ferelden cared for. He’d pushed the Templars at Kinloch Hold, citing their own failures to stop the uprising or to save those who needed it, to see mages given more freedom. His own time at the Monastery had been helpful in reminding the Knight-Commander just what his oaths truly were. He’d ceded land to the Dalish, though he was already seeing it fail as report after report came in of skirmishes, ones no doubt instigated by the nobles. Bloody stubbornheaded arsebiters.

The alienages, at least, he could do something meaningful about. Teyrn Fergus was diligent in following the King’s orders, no doubt in part to being Diantha’s brother and gratitude for seeing his son safely through everything, and the Wardens weren’t letting Amaranthine struggle, either. While he couldn’t keep such close tabs on every alienage, it was something. He owed it to his people and his fellow Warden not to let things stand as they were, and Anora was a very present Arl.

So, no, Feastday was not his favorite holiday. But it was the one he looked forward to the most. Someone had to keep him accountable.

\---

Notes: Part of a multi-Warden AU I'm working on. Named OCs and pertinent details are:  
-Diantha Cousland, not a Warden, escaped Highever with nephew Oren in tow  
-Vanek Aeducan, THE Warden, politically savvy but uninterested in applying it in most cases


	2. Camp/By the Fire - Eder Surana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eder reflects on things, post Broken Circle

The camp was, for once, quiet. No snores, no dreaming, no whispered conversations, just quiet. Eder was finally alone. Alone with his thoughts, and his memories, and his anger.

He had wanted for nothing, he’d thought, in the Circle. He’d had meals, and clothes, and teachers, and friends amongst the mages. He’d felt safe, protected by the Templars. And now he only felt betrayed. They’d just _left them._ They’d left his brothers and sisters, friends and mentors and those young enough that he would have been the teacher, left them to fend for themselves, and why? Because the Templars were scared? **They were supposed to protect them!**

Was it all a lie? He’d always followed the rules, obeyed where he was ordered and strove to show how thankful he was for the Circle. He’d betrayed his own friend for them. It mattered not that Jowan was, in the end, a blood mage, it mattered that Eder had severed the bonds between them _because he was asked to._

Chloe had been right, and now she was dead. Dead, like all the others. He’d killed several of them, himself. But had he the right? They had been listening to those placed in charge, as well! Uldred was trusted! Irving himself had placed Uldred in power! Why wouldn’t they follow where he led? For so long, all Eder had wanted was to be back in the Circle, back where he knew his place and what was and wasn’t permitted, where he didn’t have all these people looking to him for guidance, and all the others - all Chloe - had wanted was freedom.

A grunt from the other side of the fire interrupted his spiraling thoughts, and the fire flickered down further. Scrubbing his face, he stood to get more wood from the small stack they’d hunted down earlier, bringing the fire back to a suitable size.

He can’t go back. He knew that before. He and Alistair had a good system going, the last of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. He let Jowan and Chloe and everyone else down, he wouldn’t let his new friends fall the same way. He’d be stronger.

He won't let anyone else pay for his choices.

\---

Notes: Eder, my poor baby. If you are interested in reading more about him and his struggles during the Blight, you can check my post about it [here](https://dis-aster-hawke.tumblr.com/post/623584777778413568/another-da-oc-post-about-a-different-warden), and feel free to follow me and send me questions/comments about Dragon Age, Mass Effect, and random other things while you're there!  
Also mentioned is Chloe, as in Chloe Amell. Both she and Eder are in my multi-Warden AU mentioned in chapter one, though only Eder makes it past the Joining.


	3. Deities - Mathon Mahariel/Morrigan

“So my mother lives.”

Mathon slowed the oiling cloth along his bow, curious. “Oh?”

The look she threw him over their son’s head would kill a lesser man. “Keiran, darling, go play in the garden.”

Their son departed from the in-between with a kiss to his father’s cheek and a quiet farewell, each ominous in their own right and far more than terrifying when put together. He set aside his tools and faced his doom.

“And how is she?”

Morrigan was silent, not a breath escaped as she stared disgustedly at her husband. “Petty, with an air of superiority. But you already knew that.”

Never let it be said that Mathon was a coward. His death faced him and so he faced it as he’d lived: spitefully, and foolishly taunting the Witch he loved. “Do send her my regards.”

Turning back to his bow, he once more picked up the oiling cloth, only to have her freeze him. Literally.

“You told me you killed her.”

“And so I did. How else could I have gotten you your precious tome?”

To his surprise, though perhaps more to hers, she released him, and seemed to deflate. Defeat never looked good, and he hated its appearance most on his wife. She was a force of nature, as fearsome as the Wilds she hailed from and far more hardy. It was, after all, a large part of the attraction.

He rubbed at his temples, temper still quick even now the Calling had passed. “Ir abelas, ma vhenan. Tell me."

\--- 

Notes: Once again, part of my multi-Warden AU. Mathon did not, in point of fact, kill Flemeth for the grimoire. Not that he will ever tell Morrigan that. Mathon Mahariel gladly took Morrigan's offer, both in my actual run of Origins with him and in his stories. However, he refused to let her just leave, and insisted on going with her.


	4. Children of the Stone - Bianca Cadash

The Storm Coast was a nice change of pace. The rain wasn’t any worse than the snow and cold, and it smelled heaps better than Val Royeaux and the Hinterlands did. Best of all was all the rock. The caves welcome her, the old thaig calls to her, and only distantly does the Stone echo wrongly.

That doesn’t mean it was safe.

She’d lost Varric and the others. If she held still enough she could find them, she was sure, but holding still was _not_ an option! She slashed again at the skittering, scratching things swarming around her, her grip on her dagger firm yet not enough to keep the deepstalkers and whatever else had found her entirely at bay.

She was just hoping that there would be enough of her left to be returned to the Stone when she heard it: the Iron Bull’s roar, and the click-twang-thunk of the other Bianca, and the hissing burn of magic as her party found her. The presence of those who could actually see their opponents swiftly cleared the mob, and it wasn’t much longer before she was once again being towed around. This time, it was Varric holding onto her rather than her hooked to his jacket, complaining about blind dwarves and bad decisions the entire way.

Months later, with Varric once again holding onto her and complaining, she couldn’t bring herself to be bothered by it; the weight of his arm across her ribs and the bristle of his chest hair on her back were a nice counterpoint to his ~~worries~~ complaints, and the alcohol was strong in her blood, and the bed was warm. And Varric smelled _much_ better than the world outside. 

\---

Notes: Bianca Cadash was named as a joke. She is blind, and several people around her forget that in their quest to make her some figurehead. Sometimes that leads to stupid choices by those people. Varric is a very worried Mom Friend TM (you cannot convince me otherwise) who makes her hold his belt or jacket so she can stay out of the line of fire. As a result he gets to uncomfortably relive a lot of the terror he had running around with Hawke. And yes, they do become a Thing.


	5. Bestiary - Kenna Theirin

The first form she took was the one those who knew her best still associated her with. A mouse, small and almost as silent as her, moving unheard and unseen through the tower. It had a freedom she could only dream of, anymore, and at first she was jealous. Jealous and angry, and in a fit of defiance she caught it. One of the older novices managed to find a cage for it, and their entire dorm took turns looking at the miserable, scared wretch.

The others quickly lost interest, but not her. Kenna would stay up watching it move about, or eat, or hold so still she almost believed it had died as captive as her. The first night she gave it serious thought was the first night she’d caught a Templar’s temper. Bruises covered her arms and back where she’d protected herself as much as she could; Ser Lauran hadn’t appreciated her refusal to state her business, and had dragged Kenna through the stone halls to the Senior Enchanter in charge of the novices, taking pains to throw the small girl into corners and pillars on their way.

It took a week to get it the first time, and then it came easier and easier. She grew, and she shrank, and she learned to go unnoticed even during the day. She’d been there long enough for her teachers to know she wouldn’t or couldn’t answer, and they stopped looking for her. Dangerous, to be forgotten in a place like this, but Kenna didn’t care.

When Uldred and the others returned from Ostagar, spilling words of death and darkspawn, a King betrayed by his allies and left to rot, she disappeared into herself. Silent sobs for a brother lost and the vain hopes he’d call for her later dashed on the rocks of that far away fortress, she steeled her spine. She was a Theirin. She may have lost her brother but she _would_ regain her life. Alistair was still out there, and she had the means to find her way away from the damned Circle, and _she would find him_.

Days passed and she remained unnoticed, empty bed and empty cage left behind, just another little mouse slipping through the cracks of the tower. Slipping through like the blood magic and the words of rebellion had slipped past Irving and Gregoire, until the Templars sealed it off. If a mouse could smile, she would have. Instead she did what she did best, and went silent, unnoticed.

\---

Notes: Kenna Theirin is an OC I developed a while back, who after escaping the Circle travels with her big bro Alistair for a while, then Leliana up through the Conclave. She is mute, and adopts big brothers like you would not believe. Her primary school of magic is shapeshifting, which leads to some funny (to me) accidents after she's named the Herald of Andraste. She communicates - eventually - via a sign language that Zevran teaches her and the rest of the Warden's party. She has complicated feelings about Cailan but still mourns his death; he was still her brother.


	6. Raiders of the Waking Sea - Isabella & Merrill & Carver

The sun was hot and the air was still, only the waves around them moving and making noise. The sails were furled, the anchor weighed, and the crew of _Tel’abalas_ were going nowhere.

Admiral Isabella lounged at the desk in the captain’s quarters while Merrill kept an eye out the open window for a raven. They’d been waiting for word for days, Carver’s last letter tucked in a box in the chest at the foot of the bed neither had found rest in for months.

“Do you think he’s hurt, then?”

Isabella didn’t need to look at her lover to know what expression she wore. “No, kitten. This is Carver we’re talking about. He’s probably too busy getting drunk with Varric or facing hordes of fans. Besides, Bethany was with him.”

“Oh, of course you’re right. She’d tell us.”

Isabella didn’t have the faith in their other lover’s twin that Merrill did, but Isabella was a cynic. She hadn’t thought she’d be where and with who she was, either, but even at her worst she had never been able to deny the Hawke siblings anything it was in her power to give. Not even that damned Tome.

Merrill, bless her, was as restful as her nickname on the best of days, flitting about here and there, projects constantly left half-begun until she made her way back to them. Isabella loved her, really, but it was too hot to have this much energy. Setting her boots on the floor of the cabin, she huffed an irritated sigh and stood. “All right, kitten. I’m going to check things on deck. You might try writing him first, if you can sit still long enough.”

She’d not taken three steps toward the door when it opened, one of the crew bearing a note. “Letter for you, Admiral. Brought it and the bird,” he lifted the arm on which the feathered beast stood in emphasis, “straight away.”

The world fell away and into her stomach, a hard lump too large to keep down holding her in place. The heat was gone and all was cold as she carefully took the roll of paper.

Isabella was not an optimist. She still prayed she’d be wrong, once again.

\---

Notes: Something with actual dialogue! GASP! Yes, I have them in a threesome, and yes both twins are alive. Takes place in an AU where the eldest Hawke disappeared from Kirkwall when Leandra came to see her dying father and the twins were barely two weeks old. It's a whole thing that some day I may even write out. As a result, the Amell-Hawke family dynamic is a bit different, and Carver ends up named Champion.


	7. Cards - Aster Hawke and DA2 companions

The cards were uneven beneath her hands, places worn smooth while others were torn, some cards warped from spilled drink and others from being folded, bent, curved, thrown. At least three cards in this deck, she knew, came from others, but cheating was a part of the game.

Merrill was blushing, and it was even odds if the flush was from the warmth of the Hanged Man, the alcohol coursing through all their veins, the pirate draped heavily across her shoulders, pleasure from her win, or the rueful grin of the young man across the table from her. Aster shook her head as Anders pouted down the table from her, Bethany leaning to bump her shoulder against his.

Aveline was calling it a night for the third time tonight, having yet to actually leave the table, and Varric was gleefully scribbling while the cards were momentarily forgotten. Fenris had folded two rounds earlier, and now sat at the end of the table nearest Aster, Enno draped across his shoulder. She shot him a look, a quirk of the eyebrow and tilt of the head, but he shook his head no. A tilt of her shoulder as she looked where Varric was now collecting the cards for the next round was all the acknowledgement needed.

She’d relieve him of his burden after this round; she could fight one-handed, and he needed both of his. Not that the walk back to Hightown had been that eventful lately, but they each had plenty reason to be on their guard. The few years since making their own ways to Kirkwall had already seen an uptick in activity from all quarters. Something was brewing, and she’d already sworn she wouldn’t see her son fall prey to the city as she had.

\---

Notes: Ties in vaguely with chapter 6. Aster Hawke was kidnapped by slavers while Leandra visited her dying father; the twins were 2 weeks old. She escaped in 9:30 Dragon, and made her way to Kirkwall, where she met the Hawkes already making a name for themselves amongst the Ferelden refugees, and reunited with Fenris who had escaped two years before her. Enno is her son. Carver would go on to be named Champion about a year after this story takes place. Some day I will probably write more of Aster's story, but for now these prompts are all I've written.


	8. Holidays - Liya Tabris

Summerday was always a big to-do when Liya was growing up. As a child, she’d looked forward to services and the procession. And the weddings. She’d ask her mother, and later her father, all about their wedding day, and talk for hours about her future. Sometimes she was marrying a handsome new neighbor, other times a pretty elf right from their own alienage.

As she stared down her sword at the bastard that had ruined it for her, she felt nothing inside. No rage for the murder of her would-be groom, a man who had known her for only a few minutes, yet came after the Arl’s son all the same. No anger for the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of the shems. No worry for Shianni. No remorse for Ana’s death. Just a nothing so all-consuming, Liya wondered if she’d ever feel again.

It was with that nothing filling her that she drove her sword through Vaughn’s throat and yanked it back out. It was with that nothing filling her that she walked to the next room and pulled her cousin to her feet. It was with that nothing filling her that she led the procession, not to the Chantry on this Summerday, but to the alienage, to her home. It was with that nothing filling her that she fixed the ring Nelaros had carried for her on her left hand, and faced the guards already combing the alienage for her.

The first thing Liya felt after the nothingness was panic. The Grey Warden was changing things, and she found no words to fight him. A shem, and she could not fight.

The next thing Liya felt after the nothingness was cold. Her dress was stiff and sticky and a sudden chill crept up her spine and down her arms as she understood it was covered with the blood of her people and their abusers, their killers.

The last thing Liya felt after the nothingness on Summerday was grief. The Grey Warden had stopped them for the night and set up camp, built a fire large enough to deter predators, large enough to warm them in the night, large enough to cook. He passed her a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, and she looked at it. She looked at the food, and her still-bloody hands, her bloody ruined white gown beneath them and how it all shook. How it all shook because _she_ was shaking. Shaking and gasping and her face was wet and her throat felt like she’d swallowed a fist.

Across the fire, the Grey Warden watched the reality of the day finally hit his newest recruit, and felt pity. This path would not be easy, but she was strong. Stronger than she may think at the moment, but Duncan had faith in her. Today was going to be harder than anything she faced going forward, but she wouldn’t be alone.

\---

Notes: Some day I'm going to write a story that doesn't end with something ominous lurking on the horizon, but this is Dragon Age, so it ain't going to be today. Obviously takes place during the City Elf Origin; Ana is the name I arbitrarily gave the female elf who is killed while being held in the Arl of Denerim's estate if playing as a female Tabris.


	9. Specialization - Vanek Aeducan & Sten

“I do not understand. You use the same swords and shields, yet you do not perform the same role in battle.”

Vanek looked up to the clouded sky over their camp for the night, thinking through his answer. Conversations with the towering Qunari always followed the same pattern, questions asked without asking. For a brief moment he was glad Alistair was busy being ignored by his wife at the other end of the camp; Morrigan had been harping on him again over letting himself be led, and Ancestors only knew how he’d handle someone else questioning his capabilities.

“We both use swords and shields, yes, but not the same ones. Tell me, Sten of the Beresaad, does each spear thrust the same? Does each bow loose the same arrow? We recovered your sword, is it interchangeable with any other?”

“No.”

Vanek looked up to where Sten was sitting by him. “No two foes fight the same. No battle goes exactly as another.” Pointing across the camp to where Alistair was now entertaining Diantha’s nephew, he continued. “Alistair is a front-line fighter. His shield protects from melee blows, yes, but it’s also for missile deflection, and can be used as a weapon if need be. Versatile, and necessary in the first waves of combat. My shield is a wall. I can hide behind it, or shelter one of our people. I can leverage my entire strength behind it to push through enemies.

“Similarly, our swords serve different purposes. Alistair has more reach and can charge through darkspawn, killing or injuring them as he goes, while those of use fighting from the rear can pick them off; my role is to finish them off before they reach the mages and archers. Just as you and Oghren use greatswords, but fit into battle differently, so do Alistair and I.”

“You missed your destiny, but it is not an entirely bad thing. The day will come when the Arishok sends us here. On that day I will not look for you on the battlefield.”

Standing, Vanek nodded to Sten. He understood. “I will not look for you, either.”

\---

Notes: Yet another in my multi-Warden AU. As mentioned in the notes on day one, Vanek Aeducan is THE Warden. Alistair's wife Diantha gets a mention, and the nephew mentioned is Oren. Because F You, Bioware, I'm not writing another sad sack shitty world where a child is needlessly murdered to give a character angst.


	10. Origins - Leandra, Bethany & Carver Hawke

Leandra liked to believe she knew her children. She had spent the past twenty years worrying over them, watching for the slightest hint of anything wrong. For several years after _the incident_ , she refused to let them out of her sight, or Malcolm’s. She kept them home, safe with her until they grew too restless. When Bethany first showed her magic, Malcolm began her lessons in the safety of their own barn. When Carver wanted to learn to protect them, he begged and begged, until Leandra relented and helped him find a teacher; even then, she sat and did her sewing and knitting while he grew into a strong young man.

When Malcolm died… Part of her died with him. The twins were too grown, too used to doing their own things for her to watch them both. Her children, Andraste guide them, made it easier on her. Bethany wanted to learn how to defend herself without relying on magic, and Leandra wondered that they hadn’t thought of it before. So, Carver manned the stand on market days, practiced with the local guards and occasional Templar (much to his mother and sister’s upset) in the mornings, and taught Bethany how to handle smaller blades in the evenings.

He’d only just begun telling her of the knife-wielders who coated their blades in ice and fire using alchemy, and working with her on imitating that with magic, when the word came that the King was looking for those willing and able to face darkspawn. Leandra had pleaded with him not to go, terrified at the thought that she should lose another child, but he’d gone anyway. And when he came back, all but dragging her and his sister from their home in hopes of escaping the horde? Void take her, she’d been happy that the King was dead, if it meant her child wasn’t.

Life back in Kirkwall wasn’t always easy. Gamlen had struggled, managing things alone when she couldn’t bear to return to where she’d lost her eldest. Her brother said he understood, but there was still a bitterness between them that more than a year on, they were still trying to move past. The family estate was barer than she’d ever seen it, everything missing sold to cover the family’s debts. But it was still her childhood home, place of her best - and worst - memories.

So when her children came home from whatever it was they did to bring food to the table and fine cloth to their mother, shaken and unable to meet her eyes, she worried. She always worried. When more nights came with more speaking glances between the twins and more reluctance to look at her, she dreaded. And when, finally, Bethany - her dear, sweet Bethy - lost her temper at Carver, Leandra learned to hope.

“We think we found Aster.”

\---

Notes: Wrote about Aster a few prompts back. For anyone confused, Aster was taken by slavers when she was two, while Leandra was at her father's bedside. Because Leandra came when her father was dying, she and Gamlen didn't have the rift between then as in canon; Gamlen managed to hold on to the estate, just barely, but the family name was worth very little when the Hawkes came from Ferelden. Leandra has been under the impression her eldest child died, and the twins grew up knowing they had an older sister once. The only portrait of Aster showed a baby that was nearly identical to Bethany at the same age; as adults, both sisters are still near-perfect mirrors of each other, their hairstyles and eye color being the biggest difference.


	11. Aging - Yarrah Adaar/Iron Bull, Cremisius Aclassi, Nezlie Adaar

People like her didn’t retire. They didn’t buy a homestead and toil in the dirt when they’d spent twenty, thirty years fighting on it. “People like us don’t know how or when to quit, Boss.” Bull had told her that the first time she said something on the subject.

“Sounds like quitter talk, Boss. You telling me the Qun makes quitters, now?” Krem had dodged Bull’s hand with a laugh when she said that both the Qunari in their ragtag band had, in fact, quit the Qun. Bull had grumbled at her for it later, when they both lay in bed. It would be a sore subject for the rest of their lives, for both of them, but she’d had longer to accept her change in role.

So here she was, prosthetic arm groaning as much as her natural one, albeit more loudly, as she drew back her bow and let the arrow fly to its new home in the eye of one of the assholes they were fighting against today. Far ahead, leading the Chargers as recklessly as he always had, was Bull. She notched again and aimed for the short one coming up on his left, the one Krem hadn’t seen yet. Down she went, screaming as the missile tore into her clavicle, silenced by one of the Chargers Yarrah hadn’t remembered the name of yet.

Nazlie put another out of their misery with a well aimed lightning strike, huffing at the sound. “Really, Boss? I can hear that bucket of bolts from here. I thought you got it tuned up!”

Another arrow let fly, her arm louder in the quieter rumble of battle downhill. Maybe another dozen to go. Ten. Nine. Yarrah shoulders her bow and lets the younger people do the rest of the work. “I did, but Dagna’s designs make no sense to most of the tinkerers we find. I’m lucky it hasn’t fallen apart.”

Nazlie had been small when the Chargers found her, covered in soot and ash and hiding under part of a burned out roof. They hadn’t meant to keep her, but Yarrah couldn’t let her go when they reached the next Chantry on their march, and Bull hadn’t pushed too hard. He was as much a sucker for a lost cause as she. Nazlie had never known either of her parental figures when they were whole in body; there was already a bad leg, missing arm, and missing eye between the Tal’Vashtoth mercenaries. Her first magic was trying to make their pains less after a particularly hard clash with some stray slavers.

She had never stopped in the roughly ten years since. “Then let me try!”

This, too, had been a recurring conversation. They passed the throat cutters, stepped over bodies and severed limbs, and finally stopped next to Bull. Krem was giving the orders these days, but Bull would always be the Chief. “Need another tune-up. Or another arm. Nearly didn’t get that last one.”

The Iron Bull leaned on his massive ax, blinking thoughtfully at his family from an eye that wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. “You know, Kadan, I think maybe it’s time to retire.”

\---

Notes: My newest Inquisitor makes her appearance! I actually romanced Blackwall with her, but the idea of her joining the Chargers would not leave and I now ship her with Bull despite my actual game run. I imagine they became a thing after Bull refused to sacrifice the Chargers, and she helped him with his identity crisis. Her backstory is that she was Karashok in Seheron, when another member of her unit bailed and decided she was too young for all that bullshit. She struggles with her place in the world, and being center stage in a foreign religion's conflict was not pleasant for her. Nazlie has Yarrah's last name because she views Yarrah and Bull as her second parents, even if neither will let her call them mom and dad.


	12. Spirits and Demons - Lysandra Trevelyan

_”You leave him with a Templar and call it safe.”_ The voice in her head could shut up any time, now.

“No! You’re nothing like me! I _**help**_ people!”

They were so close, she knew it. Just a little further, and--

Luca’s severed head rolled to her feet. Just ahead, Cullen shuffled toward her, red spikes pushing at his skin. It wasn’t real.

_”Of course it’s not real. The Knight-Captain would never harm a child, would he?”_

She could really do without the mocking laughter echoing in and out of her head. Oh, that was Hawke she heard. She tore another Cullen apart as he pleaded for her to forgive him, her magic grasping the sides of the wound in his stomach and pulling until he fell.

She watched as Stroud cut down Luca with his pulsing red eyes, and then Luca again as he sat cradled in the arms of a red monstrosity, his foot flying over the side of the hill they were climbing along with a good chunk of the lyrium-riddled thing. She was going to vomit.

The horde of her worst fears finally fell under Dorian’s maelstrom, and she paused a moment to fight down her gorge. Her cousin refused to meet her eyes as he passed, his face taut with suppressed emotion.

Void, they all needed a drink or eleven after this was done. But they were almost there. A little further. A little more. The spirit, or Divine, or whatever went to hold off part of the Nightmare while they chipped away at the rest of it and inched their way toward the rift. Never quite close enough, always just a little more, a little further.

Dorian was through, dragging Cole behind him. She owed him so much for that. Both of them. Then Varric was being told, “Fucking _go,_ already!” and then it was three. Stroud was arguing, and Hawke was arguing, and, “If the two of you don’t shut it, already, and _**help me,**_ I will leave you _both!_ ”

She would, Varric’s feelings be damned and the Grey Wardens be damned and _damn it all to the Void_ she just wanted to hold her son! There, another break in the Nightmare’s defenses, the spirit or Divine or who-gives-a-flying-fuck was back, distracting it again, and she molded the Fade around her to _shove_ both the warriors through the rift before lifting her skirts and running.

She couldn’t look back. She wouldn’t look back. Not even as she heard the Nightmare laugh in her head. Not even as it promised to see her again. She ran, and she jumped, and she was through.

\---

Notes: So, I'm playing catch-up after spending a week in hospital with my youngest, hence all the updates over the last few days. This one, despite never naming her in the text, is about Lysandra Trevelyan, affectionately dubbed "Momquisitor" and featured in my fic [Felt the Sky Resting on Our Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17799998), as well as a few other AUs I have not committed to text yet. Luca, for those who haven't read the main story, is her son; despite her rocky past with Cullen, he's taken over care of Luca while she's away.  
Additionally, while I understand why they used spiders as a fear for the Inquisitor, I really wanted to personalize it - hence her fears being Luca-centric - and I've always liked the idea that while the player can hear the taunts thrown at everyone, the actual party can only hear their own. Her party in this one is Cole, Dorian and Varric.


	13. The Chasind - Fergus Cousland

The last thing he remembered was an apology to his family. Would Oriana weep, wailing when she receives the news, or would she stand stoically by as he suspects his mother, father and sister will? Mother and Father would keep their mourning private, he was sure. He’d seen them retreat more than once when a former comrade passed, their grief hidden in the tight lines of their backs, their mouths, in the shuttered retreat of their eyes. Diantha was too much like them, too like him to let it out where others could see.

Oren was likely still too young to understand, and it was to him that Fergus apologized the most as the darkspawn swarmed their scouting band and the world went dark.

The first thing he remembered was strange speech. Not the shrieks and guttural tones of the darkspawn, but true language; simply not one he knew. Familiar, in a way, and he realized it reminded him of the Ash Warriors’ cadence, of those small villages spread on the edges of the Korcari Wilds and almost into it. Different than the trade-influenced dialect common in the north, and the rolling tones of Denerim. Human, and therefore not unpleasant, nor unwelcome.

He thought another apology to his family, this time for the grief they’d have felt, and the upheaval his survival would cause.

His saviors, he learned, had been clearing out bands of the darkspawn, and stumbled across him quite by accident. They had carried him and a few others out of the fray, though most had been put to death before the taint could spread. He had been fortunate, he was told, that bruises and braining were the worst of his injuries.

It was the latter that kept him there as long as he stayed. The head was slow to heal, and often faced set-backs even as his body felt entirely recovered. The shaman in whose home he had awoken saw to him daily, saying his spells and feeding him strange brew as his strength grew. Still, it was many, many months before he was allowed to walk freely. The Chasind had been suspicious, they said, when King Cailan’s forces first began amassing, though he had treated well with the villages that had approached.

The Wilds were their land, their home, and they would defend it from whichever threat it faced. The darkspawn were too large a danger, the land itself succumbing to the Blight where they shed their blood.

It was from Bakar, a hunter, he learned that his friend, his King was dead. It was from Vogel, a runner more familiar with the rest of Ferelden than his brethren, he learned that Loghain had claimed the crown. And it was from Zeru, the shaman, that he was told to be on his way to join the forces gathering again, near Redcliffe.

“Your place is not here, Dog Lord. You are strong. You are needed. You will go.”

\---

Notes: I'M STILL AT IT! I'm super far behind, but I'm going to finish this list. Almost half-way done, and damned proud of myself. Right, so a few names thrown around here; Diantha has shown up peripherally several times now. The rest are names for some of the Chasind that took in Fergus. We're not given much information about how he was saved, or why, or how he knew to try to join the army marching against the Archdemon, so I made it up. Hope you enjoyed.


	14. Potions, Poisons, and Tonics - Eder Surana

"Not like that!" Cursing in Elvhen, Mathon stepped back from Eder. "It is not… It is not held like that!"

Liya watched from a log nearby, carefully counting each of her supplies and placing them securely in her pouch. "He is not your dinner, Eder, laid out on a table to slice. You need to adjust your hold, like he showed you."

For his part, Eder was tired, and the prickly Dalish was difficult to get on with at the best of times. Liya, however, had laughed when asked, and said her cousin had stuck her enough times as a youth to know better than to try to teach. Still, he looked at the blade in his hand, and tried to remember the way Mathon had shown him.

It was probably for the best that they kept him using his own knife, and not one of their longer daggers as Heryn and Zevran had suggested. _"It's not worth learning if you're not going to learn properly!"_ she had called, and Zevran had insisted, _"You learn quicker when the stakes are higher."_ Crazier than a lyrium accident, the both of them.

Mathon approached, checking the hold and adjusting his fingers a bit. "Better." Stepping back, he retook his position. "Now!"

Eder swung the large branch in place of his staff, watching as the older Elf dodged his way through the swipes. Once in range, Eder struck out with his other hand, knife securely in the proper grip, and stopped.

Mathon looked half-mad in the fading light, his eyes glowing faintly, and Eder flinched when he clapped him on the shoulder. "Now _that_ was a proper strike!"

Sagging in relief, Eder allowed himself to be pushed onto the log next to Liya and divested of his weapons. "Next we should cover basic poisons."

A resounding "NO!" came from more than their corner of the camp, and Mathon's grin turned a bit wicked in response.

"I refuse to heal you should you get yourself poisoned. And that boy is not going to be guilted into doing it, either!" Morrigan glared at the group of them, the closest of the humans.

Eder and she did not get along, him being far closer to Alistair and Diantha, but he could admire her stubborn will. "I will not, you are correct." He smiled, amused at the scornful look she shot them before turning back to her pot.

Mathon was slower to look away from the apostate, but Eder neither knew nor cared what they got up to - or didn't - so long as he was kept well out of it. "I wasn't suggesting you _use_ them! You're more likely to poison yourself pulling out your knife than you are to land a hit that does any damage, but you should know what signs to look out for."

Zevran agreed, and even Liya couldn't think of an argument against it, so Eder spent the next while being taught, sometimes rather graphicly, about the common poisons, how to spot them and how to treat them.

The next time they found an appropriate clearing for camp, the fighting lessons continued. Heryn offered suggestions, and occasionally stepped in to break his defenses. This continued every time they stopped somewhere with enough space and without prying eyes to complain about his magic, for months. Wynne, when she'd learned of it, had tried to put a stop to it, but it had helped Eder in too many fights to agree with her by then.

Slowly, more and more of them took turns sparring in the evenings when they hadn't already been fighting for their lives. The lessons on poisons turned to treatments, Eder and Morrigan insisting that every one of them knew a basic poultice. Diantha's mabari learned to sniff them all out, and more than once brought poultices to them as they licked their wounds surrounded by Loghain's most recent batch of idiots trying to stop them.

Did the man have nothing better to do? Eder simply did not understand the hubris needed to blame the Wardens for the Blight and everything that had gone wrong with it. From some of Diantha's comments, Loghain's new right hand had been fairly involved in much of it all, and Loghain had been warned!

Still, he was surprised when Leliana pulled herself from Vanek's side long enough to run through what he knew. Soon, they were working on tonics to, at the very least, temporarily keep everyone going. The Blight had spread, and soon they would be in Denerim to meet with Arl Eamon. His were not the only nerves, and soon Oghren was sharing some of his liquor, to everyone's horror and astonishment.

"It ain't a potion, but it'll put you right to sleep."

\---

Notes: Another entry in my multi-Warden AU. Several of them have popped up, but a quick refresher:  
\- Eder Surana: 19, sheltered Circle mage slowly coming out of his shell  
\- Mathon Mahariel: 23-ish, Dalish rogue, bit of an asshole, but does care  
\- Liya Tabris: 22-ish Alienage brat, very slow to trust but is also 100% team "protect all Elves"  
\- Heryn Brosca: 27-ish, happy to be there and out of Dust Town, tiny Dwarf, yet another rogue (most of my Wardens are; there are four of them)  
\- Diantha Cousland: 21-ish, did not sign up for this, and is not actually a Warden  
\- Vanek Aeducan: 37-ish, happy to take the lead as he has actual experience leading


	15. Red Lyrium Corruption - Maxime Trevelyan

Max had heard stories about Kirkwall. She'd read _Tale of the Champion_. She'd heard Varric's warnings and heeded them. Nothing prepared her for the reality of waking surrounded by it.

There was something with the mark in her hand that… It didn't replace lyrium, exactly, but she'd been hearing the song echoing through her bones, louder and louder with each pulse. She hadn't had a draught since she'd woken in Haven's Chantry basement, disturbingly well prepared for holding prisoners. Here? Now? Surrounded by the lurid near-bloody glow, thigh deep in water and Maker only knows what else? It was like the world swam around her, and the people talking to her weren't people at all.

The Tevinter mage, Dorian, waved a hand over her face. She guessed he looked concerned, but it was hard to tell with all the noise in her head and that fucking glow.

She pitched over sideways and lost her stomach. Too much, too much, TOO MUCH. "'s loud."

Dorian looked at her queerly, turning his gaze around the cells. "What is?"

Spitting, she reached for the waterskin she kept at her back, desperate to rinse the taste out. "I forget you don't hear it like that."

"Dear, if you could make a little sense, I would appreciate it."

She wiped her mouth with her arm, standing back up and moving on. "Lyrium. I forget mages don't hear it like we do."

When he didn't follow her, she turned back to face him. "Templars. We… It's a long story. Can we move? I'd like to know just what Magister Alexius did to us."

They worked their way through the dungeons, getting answers absolutely no one liked. The lyrium was, not easier to ignore, not really, but the constant bombardment became a background radiation. Each new room as covered in the damned shite as the last frayed at her nerves. She snapped when talked to, and needed… She needed…

"Herald!" The Seeker rushed to her, propping her up as Max stumbled. They'd found her and Varric in another dungeon, hours ago, along with the former Grand Enchanter.

Varric joined the Seeker, easing Max to the ground in the room they had so recently cleared. "Easy there, Spiky, you're starting to live up to your name."

The red haze coming off the two of them was not helping. She needed air. She needed quiet!

She needed that **fucking** song to fucking stop.

"Stop." They didn't listen. "Stop! Just… Just stop! I need, need space. Maker, it's so loud…"

"She was sick when we arrived, complained about the sound of the lyrium." Dorian was there, suddenly, blessedly moving the others back.

"The sound? Ah, shit, Spiky, I forgot. Backing up." Varric, true to his word, moved across the room. The red surrounding him made everything shift and blur, but the sound was a little softer. Finally.

The Seeker was a little slower to move, though she, too, joined the Dwarf at Dorian's insistence. "Now, what was it you were saying about the sound? This red variety has several unusual traits, but while I'm certain the study would be interesting it does not help _now_. So," he'd pulled a vial from his belt, watching her face carefully as he waved it under her nose, "can you explain? Templars back home don't have quite the ear you do, my dear, and I am dreadfully curious."

He'd pulled another potion from his belt, pressing it to her lips as he spoke, and she reached for it at the smell of elfroot and embrium. Her head felt a little clearer, at least for the moment. She knew they couldn't stop for long, needed to get out of there, get back to when she was supposed to be.

"Templars take lyrium," she mumbled. Maker, her head felt heavy. "It's what gives us our abilities. It has a, a song of sorts."

"Any Dwarf can tell you, lyrium has a voice. Some think that's what 'the Stone' is, when they hear it. Red lyrium is loud enough that _anyone_ can, with enough exposure." Varric's voice echoed faintly.

"Ah, that would explain things." Dorian looked perturbed, though. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Once we get out of here, sure, if I can find her."

Dorian looked back at Varric and Cassandra, though they looked as confused as he.

Max pushed herself up, breathing deeply as she reached her full height. "Well." She stared at the door they had yet to go through, and her hand tightened around the pommel of her sword. "No time like the present. Let's see if we can't find that Magister."

\---

Notes: So, a few chapters back I wrote about Lysandra, my Momquisitor. Well, Max is her twin sister. Max was originally not going to be much but a background motivation-type device, but then she just grew from there. It's worked out, as I was doing edits on [Felt the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17799998/chapters/41995091) anyway. The downside to it is she prompted me to wonder "what if Max was the Inquisitor instead?" So, now I have yet _another_ AU involving Lysandra and her siblings (there are now 6 of them!! 6 AUs!!) to eventually get through. Maxquisitor, as I'm calling that AU to my writing buddy/partner in crime [@rprambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rprambles/works), will most likely be the next one I write out fully.


	16. The Black Emporium - Bethany & Aster Hawke

It was not her first time visiting the Emporium, but it was the first in a few years. Bethany stared at the mirror in the corner, one she once thought of as a novelty. But now, seeing Aster browsing across the room, she _wondered_.

What would it be like to be her own person, again? It wasn't terrible having a sister. She'd spent most of her life wishing - for so many reasons - that Aster had never been taken from them, and here she was! Her sister was returned, and lived her own life with them in it, and each year brought them closer than the last. Except…

Bethany looked at her reflection, her hand smoothing over her cheek, fingers tracing her nose and mouth and brows, eyes tracing the shape of each feature in its turn. She studied her face, and then her sister's in the reflection, and sighed.

Aster caught her eye across the room, and came to stand beside her. Mother was so fond of how alike they looked, insisting they would never have found each other if not for the resemblance. And maybe Mother was right, but Bethany liked to think they would have known anyway, that they would have put it together. Bethany liked to think that they would be better sisters if the world let them be themselves, and not each other.

Stood side by side, their reflections showed what the world, what their mother saw. But for once, Bethany saw what Aster did: two sisters, as alike as they are different. Bethany stood barely taller. The same black hair, but Bethany's was loose waves while Aster's was so many long braids (Bethany remembered the first time she saw it down, a riot of tight waves that spread out like a bush). Darker skin, tanned permanently from long years as a slave in Tevinter, to her pale skin from years hiding who and what she was in her father's homeland of Ferelden.

Their eyes, so similar in shape and so different in color; a strong brown, inherited along with her magic from their father to the sharp, cold blue almost the same as the lyrium etched in her skin. Their mouths the same shape, the same prefered shade of red, one more gentle and the other severe. The same cheeks and chin, the same neck. Aster was harder, thinner under her clothes, and her scars, too, marked them as unique.

No, the temptation to use the mirror, to have her _own_ face may never fully go away. And yet…

"You're right. We don't look that much alike."

In the mirror, matching smiles shone back at them.


	17. I Want to Be a Dragon - Iron Bull & Yarrah Adaar

Taking down Corypheus had been everything he could have asked for. Well, maybe not the death drop at the end, that had sucked, but the fight itself? Fuck yeah. They got to take on a dragon, probably his favorite part of signing on with the Inquisition! Well… He eyed Yarrah across the room, the swell of her hip and the curve of her breast, the disgusted glint in her eye as she took a drink to hide her grimace at whatever the Orlesian in front of her was saying. Maybe not his _favorite_ part.

She was looking more and more wound up, even as she drank cup after cup of wine. Checking the state of the rest of the room, he should be good to get her out of there soon, and partake in his _actual_ favorite part…

Soon came sooner than anticipated, and it was only as they were unwinding, the cool air drying the sweat on their skin and the sheets, lying across her bed, that his original thoughts caught back up to him. "Boss. The dragon."

He could feel Yarrah turn her head next to him, slow like him, like his thoughts and mind after untying her. He didn't need to be able to see her to know how she blinked slowly at him, thoughts trying to piece themselves together, nor to know how she would-- Yep. He grinned lazily at her snort, at the slight shove of her shoulder against his, and his hand found hers. Rough from years of fighting, just like his. He lo--

"You realize you sound like you want to fuck a dragon."

His brain did something, zapped like Dorian's lightning, and he actually entertained the idea for a moment before he caught up with what she had said. His faced scrunched up, and he tilted his head to look at her looking at him with that mocking look she'd worn since the day they met. Fuck, he loved her, and the idea wasn't so scary these days.

"I want to _be_ a dragon, Kadan." He sighed dreamily, not expecting the shove. The disgusted sound Yarrah made, yes; hitting the ground, no.


	18. Soldier's Peak - Eder Surana

The halls were silent, most days. The ghosts had grown used to his presence years ago, and he had in turn grown used to them. Sometimes he had real company, a new Warden sent his way by Vanek or Nathaniel, even once by Anders. Sigrun stopped in periodically in her hunts across the northern stretches of Ferelden, and Oghren was known to pop by with Felsi and their son in tow.

Mostly, though, his company was ghosts, and books. It was quiet, and admittedly lonely after a year surrounded by the others, but he… Eder sighed, closing yet another of Avernus's tomes in frustration. There still weren't many Wardens in Ferelden. None that had stayed seemed keen on growing their ranks. They all knew the dangers, after all.

He pulled another book from the shelf, noting the dates. Chloe would have been a better Warden than he was. She should have survived, not him. She was stronger, smarter, less easily led. She would have understood Avernus's work, would have made something more of it by now!

The shutters slammed against the walls of the keep, and the book fell. He stooped to pick it up.

But… Chloe hadn't survived their Joining, he had. He'd been strong enough, had survived this long. Now he just had to keep working.


End file.
